"Easy marks!" was his philanthropic expression of this sentiment.
At the corner he stopped for a car. He glanced up at the clock of the
Metropolitan tower. The bronze hand pointed to the stroke of six. As he
looked, the first note of the quarter chimes rang out. The car swung the
corner and headed down the street. McCarthy stepped forward. The sweet
chimes ceased their fourfold phrasing, and the great bell began its spaced
and solemn booming.
_One!--Two!--Three!--Four!--Five!--Six!_ McCarthy counted. At the
recollection of a crazy message from the Unknown, he smiled. He stepped
forward to hold up his hand at the car. Somewhat to his surprise the car
had already stopped some twenty feet away.
McCarthy picked his way to the car.
"Wonder you wouldn't stop at a crossing," he growled, swinging aboard.
"Juice give out," explained the motorman.
McCarthy clambered aboard and sat down in a comfortably filled car. Up and
down the perspective of the street could be seen other cars, also stalled.
Ten minutes slipped by; then Malachi McCarthy grew impatient. With a
muttered growl he rose, elbowed his way through the strap-hangers, and
stepped to the street. A row of idle taxicabs stood in front of the Atlas
Building. Into the first of these bounced McCarthy, throwing his address
to the expectant chauffeur.
The man hopped down from his box, threw on the coil switch and ran to the
front.
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